Authors: Sally Clements
Andie gripped Brianne’s hand. No one understood the pain coursing through Brianne as Andie did. At least neither of them would be alone in the days that followed. “I know. We’ll just have to be strong.”
And maintain an illusion of coping, as both their lives fell apart.
Chapter Fifteen
“That was a fantastic interview.” John Maguire, the cub correspondent who’d posted the segment breaking the news of the coup, sat across the table in the hotel’s conference room they’d used for the interview, admiration shining from his eyes. “Your questions were brilliant.”
“Experience, that’s all,” Ryan replied.
John had the drive and the talent to make an excellent journalist, and the grit and determination to consolidate his position as a valuable asset to the news station.
All that was lacking was experience. He needed guidance to achieve his full potential. As senior correspondent, Ryan could give him that.
The interview had been good. Ryan had carefully led Arnat through the turbulent past, the difficult road that lay ahead, and brought forth through careful questioning, the inner strength and ability of the other man. He knew that as a result of the interview, Arnat would garner the much needed support of the international community. He would be seen as a man that the world could feel confident in doing business with.
The mood in Bekostan was different, ebullient.
With the prospect of an election in the air, and the arrest and upcoming trials of the previous regime, the country was filled with excitement and hope for the future.
The conference room door swung open. Laila Jallaludin appeared in the doorway.
John stood. “I’ll talk to you later.” He walked from the room, smiling at Laila on the way out.
Ryan stood. “Laila, come in. Congratulations on your new job.” Laila Jallaludin had been put forward as a future Minister for Children, a role at which she would excel.
She walked forward and grasped Ryan’s hands. “I wanted to catch a few moments with you to thank you for all your work through the years.” She reached into her battered leather handbag, and pulled out a thick, white card. “As well as to personally deliver your invitation. Is Andie with you?”
Ryan’s heart clenched. “No, she’s back in England.”
Laila’s head tilted to the side. Her dark gaze held Ryan’s as she extended the handwritten card. “The ceremony is next week. We’ll be honoring her mother. She should be here for it.”
“I don’t know if she can come.”
“She said she would. I think that decision is hers, isn’t it?” Laila softened her words with a smile. “I’ll email her.”
The ceremony was to honor those supporters who had lost their lives along the path to freedom. A tribute to Emily. In all reality, he couldn’t deny her that. Couldn’t pressure her not to come.
“How is she, Ryan? I’ve thought of her often since we met.”
He couldn’t stop thinking of Andie. Day after day, night after night. Ryan pushed back the lock of hair that fell into his eyes. “I haven’t heard from her since I left.”
Laila squeezed his hand. “I had love once, and it was stolen from me,” she murmured in a deep voice. “My husband was my world. When he died I had to make a new world, find something else to care for or I would have given up my chance of life.”
“Andie and I didn’t spend very long together.”
“How long do you need? Love can happen in an instant. Can be taken away in a split second. The pain of losing my husband is only soothed by the memory of our love.” She squeezed his hand again, then released it. “I hope to see you both at the ceremony.”
On Laila’s departure, Ryan sank onto the chair again.
There was no triumphant joy now the interview was in the bag. The desire to carry on documenting Bekostan’s rise was clouded with an all-encompassing dull ache whenever he thought of the woman he’d left behind.
He never should have let her walk away. The reality of life without her had cleared the fog in his mind, revealing one undeniable shining truth. He loved her. There was always the risk that their relationship wouldn’t work, but if he didn’t even try… He rubbed a hand over his chest, feeling the burn inside.
Life on the frontline had lost its appeal.
Ryan slipped his jacket from the back of the chair, walked from the hotel, and hailed a taxi. After giving the driver directions, he settled back in the worn velour back seat. Beyond the window, the streetlights illuminated people still walking on the streets, enjoying the new found freedom from curfew.
Tinny music wafted in the air, and the overweight driver muttered into his radio as he cut through the streets to the hotel.
Ryan dialed Ben’s number.
“The interview was perfect,” Ben’s familiar voice bled through the line. “We’re getting a load of tweets, and the switchboard has been lit up like a Christmas tree. Good work, Ryan.”
Ryan rubbed his chin. “I’ve been thinking.” The taxi drove through a puddle, spraying water onto his window. The little iridescent drops shimmered in reflected light. “I’m going to take Mike’s job.”
He heard Ben’s exhale. “I can’t tell you how happy I am about that. I’m floundering here.”
Ben never floundered, but the job running the overseas teams was one he wasn’t familiar with, so Ryan didn’t contradict his boss. “I’ve been invited to a tribute ceremony for Emily next week. I’ll represent the station as a guest, make sure John covers it, and catch the first flight out.”
*****
On Sunday evening, Andie pushed open the door to the house she’d always known as home. She flicked on the light and breathed in the musty air. A pile of post lay behind the door, and she stooped to pick it up, then placed it on the small table to the left.
Mementos of a previous life were there with each step. The sampler made by Gran as a child, framed on the wall. A dusty rubber plant, needing water. Then the odd collection of walking sticks and faded umbrellas in the circular brass pot that had always held them. The sitting room was chilled. She flicked on a light, then went back to bring in things from the car.
It took two trips. In the second, she brought the canvas she’d painted in the garden under Brianne’s careful tutelage. She carried her painting into the kitchen, and propped it on the floor against the cupboards. She felt a smile on her lips as she gazed at the shades of blue, Bri’s words echoing in her mind. “Go big! Be brave! Look at it. The delphinium is such a majestic flower, Andie. You can’t possibly paint it two inches tall.”
Bri had waved at the canvas. “Look at the space you’ve got to fill.”
Emboldened, Andie’d painted a high swathe of color, rejecting her instinctive need to carefully, cautiously create, in fear of making a mistake. For what were mistakes, really, in the scheme of things? If she made a hames of it, she could always paint over—begin again. By stepping out of her comfort zone she gave birth to the possibility she might create a masterpiece.
The result stood before her. Hardly a masterpiece, but a picture recognizably a delphinium in all its shades of blue and iridescent purple. One that thrilled her with its adventurous strokes and bold execution. A tangible representation of the new Andie. One who would strive to be more open. Less fearful.
She made a cup of tea, and thought back over the past couple of days.
When Brianne had revealed she’d hoped Ryan would stay, and the reason, pain had clenched Andie’s heart. The day after he left was the anniversary of their mother’s death—a time no one should have to face alone. She and Brianne had faced it together. The sharing of grief had been cleansing and comforting for them both.
They’d watched Ryan’s broadcast, and while Brianne commented on the clever questions and masterful way he led Arnat through the interview, Andie focused only on Ryan. How his hands moved as he spoke. How the camera’s lens caught the intensity in his green eyes. How much she missed him.
In the days that followed, they’d painted in the garden, and when the anniversary of Brianne’s mother’s death came, lit a candle to remember her. Bri shared stories of her mother, as much as she was able. When it all got too much, they’d curled up on the sofa and watched an old Bond film, laughing at the dialogue, and the ridiculous names given to the Bond girls.
As Ursula Andress strode from the sea, Andie’s mind had flicked back to Ryan standing before her in the garden, making a quip about her only needing a knife strapped to her thigh. It would have to be that particular Bond film, wouldn’t it?
When the weekend was over, they’d embraced by the car.
“Whatever happens, you and I are friends forever,” Bri had whispered. “I’ll call you next week.”
“I’m going to paint the house. Maybe you’ll come down for a visit?”
Bri threw her bag into the back of her sports car. “Try keeping me away. I’ll call if I have any news.”
Ryan’s name hadn’t been mentioned, but his remembered presence hung in the air. “I’ll ring you too, if I hear from him.” But she wouldn’t would she? She’d told him so equivocally it was over, he’d no doubt avoid contact at all costs.
Andie picked up her cup, and strode into the sitting room. She switched on the gas fire to banish the chill, missing the smell of wood smoke as the synthetic flames flickered. Tomorrow she’d open up the house, catch up on the post, and give the entire house a spring-clean. She turned the television on. Tonight, she’d allow herself a wallow in the past. If Ryan hadn’t posted any more bulletins, she would watch the reruns. If she wanted to cry, she didn’t have any reason not to.
The morning, miraculously, brought more clear skies and sunshine. Andie’d been out and stocked the kitchen with most of her favorite foods, adding a couple of tubs of Haagen-Dazs for emergencies, and a large coffee cake, ready for Suz’s visit.
The moment she woke, she called her friend, and had then rushed around giving the house a quick Hoover, throwing the windows wide to bring in the fresh summer air.
A glance at the kitchen clock. Half eleven. The doorbell rang.
“Hi, stranger!” Suz stood on the doorstep, clutching a bag that looked suspiciously like more carbs. She waved it in Andie’s face. “I brought Danish pastries.”
“I’ve got cake.” Andie hugged her friend close. “Gosh it’s good to see you.”
“Ditto.” Suz grinned. “It’s been boring around here without you.”
They walked into the kitchen. “Ooh! New picture?” Suz stilled in front of the canvas, lifted it, and had a good look. “I like it! Did you buy it while you were away?”
Pride swelled in Andie’s heart. “I painted it.”
Suz shot her a glance with eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”
“Yup.” Andie nodded. “All my own work.”
Suz examined the picture in greater detail. “Wow. Good for you.” She put the picture down. “So, he paints does he? Ryan?”
Andie pulled two cups from the cupboard and carried the jug from the coffee machine to the table. “No, his sister Brianne is the artist. We spent the weekend painting. Ryan’s gone back to Bekostan.”